Poop poop, poop galore

Phew! What a whirlwind two days... I got cleared by the doctor to go back to work so it's been kind of hectic.

My two dogs have become much accustomed to Mommy staying home all day every day with them, so yesterday was UGLY. When I got home at 6PM, my house was a fucking wreck. Dumbshit dogs ate five pounds of sugar, the box the sugar came in, an extra large tub of peanut butter, and most of the peanut butter tub. Abso-fucking-lutely disgusting.

Sugar, when wetted and allowed to dry, apparently creates this glue-like substance which is DAMN NEAR IMPOSSIBLE to get off of linoleum. I mopped... and mopped...and mopped... it's still rather sticky.

So this morning I wake up to one of them puking. Right by my bed. Yum! Walk out into the living room and we had some verrrrrrrry wet accidents in the living room. Thankfully they were on the throw rug and not the berber carpet.

I decided to sequester the fuckers in the kitchen, so that if I had to do clean up it'd be easier to do. Good call, dudes. It was probably the most disgusting cleanup I've ever done in the history of ever. Shit. Everywhere. Literally. Like a shit-bomb exploded in the middle of the floor. But better on the linoleum than on the carpet, in my opinion. I can bleach the linoleum.

And now my dog Cyrus is having abdominal distress, it's probably bad gas from, you know... 4 pounds of sugary goodness... but I'm worried, and a lot less chipper than normal. I apologize.

Stay tuned for more fun happy goodness. I promise. Like the Saga of the Granny Panties. It's coming.

And this is why you shouldn't share with your mother

I'm currently trying to kill the remainder of a bottle of vodka, after killing the remainder of the beers I had in the fridge, so please excuse any typos and random run-on sentences please.

Definition: PIC= Partner in Crime= BFF= Amie. In case you lot can't follow my logic. Gigglesnort.

So yeah. My date with the cripple carts in the store.

It started with a Zombie Foot. And a surgery. And this girl being on crutches and Percocet. There you go.
After that it started with an innocuous invite from PIC to go wreak havoc and hell... plus I needed a fucking cigarette. So Mother Dear says... "Well when you're out you should get a BBQ lighter. And some duct tape. And some WD-40". (Oh shit, I really was spawned from this woman).

So off we go. Helllooooo Dollar Tree!

Dollar Tree on crutches is like a hopping death trap. All that crap, piled haphazardly in little teeny aisles. I'm lucky I didn't die. But I did get these little cup things, I think they're shot glasses, that have feet. One has boobs and the other one has shorts and little abs. They're supposed to be hula cups I suppose. But Dollar Tree is lame and doesn't carry WD-40 so we had to go to Rite Aid. Rite Aid was boring so I told PIC that we needed to get me a motherfucking beer, stat, cause Mommy Dearest wouldn't let me drink while on Percocet and I was having withdrawals. Plus, I wanted to look like a gangsta carrying around a 40 on crutches. And again why Rite Aid is lame- they don't have 40s. Or 22s. So we had to go to Albertson's... and that's where I lost my shit.

Albertson's has those electro-wheely cripple carts. So I got one.
Then we had to go raid the booze aisle. Like so:

(I think I have a problem)

It's patently unfair that all the loose booze is on the top shelf. Not very nice for alcoholic (psychotic?) cripples in need. So we decided to take a few more pictures for posterity, anyways.

(YUM!)

And then I figured out the carts drive backwards! Nirvana!

Wait wait wait. Hold the phones. There's actually TWO cripple carts. So for moral support PIC decided to get the other one so we could race through the store. Oh yeah, bum Mario Cart. I told her I'd be Yogi if I was a real Mario Carter. Which resulted in me learning that it's actually YOSHI... and if you mistype YOSHI into your Droid it turns it into TOFU, which was pretty fucking funny, since I texted it to another BFF and he was all... UH you mean Toad? NOPE. TOFU, MOTHERFUCKER! YEEHAW!

(My cart was faster than hers)

So we're zooming through the store giggling madly like a bunch of high teenagers, taking pictures at random and trying not to run the other patrons of the store over. It was awesome.

When I got back home I tried to tell Mommy Dearest what happened, and why I was laughing so fucking hard. It was funny, dammit!!!

Her response?

"What are you ON? Drugs?"

And this is why you never tell your mother about anything awesome.

Normal is a relative concept

It's almost ridiculous that I haven't thought to document my adventures before. I mean, my life is pretty much an epic saga of awesome, after all. Stories... I've got stories.

So my Partner in Crime, Amie, has been MIA for the last few weeks with a terminal case of asshole family members. True story.

Today was the first time in a long time we've been able to make beautiful fun, and it was really kind of awesome. Holy hell.

Nothing like "looking for a rental house" by driving through the ritzy area of town, driving 10 miles per hour down the middle of the road. Windows down, smoking, listening to metal. My insane dog in the back of the car squealing cause she sees things to kill. Fucking white ass gangsta Amazon chicks, here.


The funniest part about the whole thing was this homicidal cat laying in the middle of this tiny little fucking back road that they only half paved cause I guess only two people drive down it a year. So, the cat. The god damn cat is sitting in the middle of the road and will.not.move. It's giving me the death stare. It's looking at me like "I'm going to eat your fucking brains you stupid piece of shit human. Go around!". So I stop. And we stare. And we stare some more.

The cat FINALLY moves it's mangy fat ass off the road, but makes sure to maintain eye contact while furiously flicking it's tail like it thinks the tail is some kind of whip of doom, and the cat will be able to tear my head off with it, if only cat tries hard enough.

Amie just looks at me and says "That cat is going to kill you".

Text speak can bite my fat ass

Text speak.

This is the scourge of the Earth, in my (profane) opinion.

People who text-speak make me want to sharpen up a dull spoon in anticipation of some eye carving shenanigans.

"OMG like WTF r u guyz doing? Imma b thur!"

FUCK. That.

All you idiot "adults" who think that writing little messages like a retarded teenager need to be stabbed in the face.

I mean really, is it that hard to fucking type "y.o.u." instead of "u". REALLY?! Two more fucking letters and you sound like a real, educated human being, rather than a moron that was raised in the backwoods under a trailer in a laundry basket.

Come on, folks. Let's all show off our basic elementary edjumicashun and use real big three letter words, for once.

-TWP, DIP.